


Expressing the Inexpressible

by Jadzialove



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: M/M, snarry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-29
Updated: 2012-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-30 06:49:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/328953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jadzialove/pseuds/Jadzialove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A routine curse-breaking house call changes everything for Harry Potter, when fate orchestrates the opportunity he thought he'd missed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Expressing the Inexpressible

**Author's Note:**

> Written for snape_potter's March theme: Music.

**Expressing the Inexpressible**  
  
  
 ** _After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music._ Aldous Huxley**  
  
  
  
Harry Potter consulted the now-crumpled piece of parchment in his hand for the eighth time. When Hermione had handed him the assignment the day before, he’d barely glanced at it, having every reason to believe she’d handled it in her usual efficient manner. Maybe pregnancy, or rather having a bit of Ron growing inside of her, had affected her higher brain functions after all; not only was the client’s name missing, the directions to the sodding place were ridiculous—whomever the client might be, the bloke must be paranoid beyond belief.   
  
The directions had stated that he should Apparate into a small seaside village in northern Scotland, which was not so unusual. The town had been pleasant enough, and it’d seemed like a place where Magic and Muggle peacefully coexisted. Then the directions had taken an odd turn: walk so many paces due east, then so many paces northwest, then so many paces true north and so on. Steadily moving inland, it was a twisting path that Harry instinctively felt had taken him past his destination several times. And now he was trudging through a wooded area, finally feeling the first tingle of the wards he was crossing; all the while grumbling about paranoid gits, and about March on the Moray Firth, as the bitter wind made his cloak flap around his legs in its attempts to break through the warming charm he’d placed on it before he’d set out this morning.   
  
Not for the first time, Harry considered the path his life had taken after Voldemort’s spectacular demise. When he, Ron and Hermione had come up with the business idea—specializing in cursed objects, breaking the curses, or safely containing and removing the objects—it’d seemed like a natural career for all of them after their experiences with the Horcruxes. It was exciting without the threat of bad guys, with the added bonus of being their own bosses. They’d even received the Ministry’s blessing, as the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Department had been absorbed into the new Muggle Relations Division; a good portion of their business came from the Ministry referrals, and they often worked in tandem with Arthur Weasley’s group, which was responsible for the enforcement of the expanded Muggle Protection Laws.  
  
It was, and continued to be, a successful endeavor, and had kept him busy, kept him from thinking too hard about the past, and it had even kept at bay the depression that was always just at the periphery, threatening to close in on him. Lately though, he’d been losing interest in the work. He rarely made first contact with the client, and generally worked only on the toughest cases. But it wasn’t enough anymore. He felt empty, and after this morning’s experience—unusual in that he _was_ making first contact (and he’d love to know how that happened)—he was starting to give serious consideration to calling it quits.  
  
The thick brush and tall trees finally gave way to a clearing as Harry’s robes snagged on a low bramble. Sighing in frustration, he carefully extricated himself from the thorny branches and mended the torn cloth with a pass of his hand, before moving toward the dwelling in the distance. It was a medium-sized stone cottage with dark green shutters and a dark green door. The smoke curling lazily up out of the chimney gave the impression that somewhere inside burned a cheery fire on such a cold morning. It was picturesque, even charming, to look at and should have felt welcoming, but instead, a powerful sense of dread washed over him the closer he came to the structure.  
  
Logically, he knew, based on the route he’d been forced to take this morning, that the owner was probably not someone who would fully lower his wards even with the expectation of a visitor. But Harry couldn’t help resenting it a little as he fought through them, and the need for flight that they’d produced in him.  
  
After what felt like an enormous amount of time for such a short distance, Harry finally reached the arched doorway. Not surprisingly, there was no welcome mat carefully placed on the doorstep.  
  
He raised his hand with the intention of knocking, but before knuckles could meet wood, the door swung inward without warning. And standing before him was the very last person that Harry would have imagined having a need for a curse-breaker, and certainly the last person he had ever expected to see.  
  
Harry’s instincts scrambled to take over for his stunned brain, and narrowly managed to stop the hand still poised for knocking from rapping on the black clad chest now in its path.   
  
“Mr. Potter.”  
  
Traveling up the black expanse before him, his eyes found the once-hated face that belonged to the all too familiar voice. For a moment he thought he’d spotted a bit of shock there, but it was so fleeting and the face now so sternly set that he knew he must have imagined it.  
  
“You are late. Perhaps my wards proved too much for you?”   
  
Harry felt a jolt as his eyes met the black ones, a single eyebrow arched in wry inquiry. He struggled to hear over the loud pounding that he reckoned was his own heart. A little pep talk— _C’mon, idiot, say something. You’re a successful businessman, not a student out of bounds, for Merlin’s sake! He called_ you _for help!_ —and he pulled himself together enough to form an answer.   
  
“Snape.” Okay, not the wittiest reply, but at least he’d managed not to sound as thrown as he felt. His brain finally caught up with Snape’s sneering remark and a more comfortable anger started to overtake the shock. “Too much? Only if by ‘too much’, you meant _excessive_. I’d’ve been here a lot sooner, if I’d known some paranoid git would have me chasing across half of Scotland first.” There, much better.  
  
Snape looked like he wanted to close the door in Harry’s face, but then he stepped back, pulling the door open a bit wider as he did so; a gesture Harry took for an invitation to enter. “Really, Mr. Potter, I cannot imagine that your business is a success if that is how you speak to your customers.”  
  
Harry took a deep cleansing breath as he stepped over the threshold, and reminded himself that he was here to do a job, just like any other job he’d been assigned over the last five years. The fact that Snape hadn’t slammed the door in his face meant that the man must have a real need, and actually, the fact that Snape had summoned help at all was significant. He could do this. Putting into place his most contrite expression, he said, “My apologies. What seems to be the trouble, Mr. Snape?”  
  
He handed his cloak to Snape, who’d silently held out a hand for it, and noticed for the first time that there was music coming from somewhere inside the house. The tune was familiar, though he couldn’t really place it. Another surprise. Snape didn’t seem the type to listen to the wireless.   
  
Without acknowledging his apology, such as it was, Snape said crisply, “This way.”   
  
The tune changed abruptly, and Harry realized then that someone in the house must have been playing it. A feeling of disappointment inexplicably ran through him to know that Snape was not there alone. He shook off the odd feeling and listened to the tune, which was lilting and hopeful, but tentative, and it got louder as they moved through the house. He got only a passing impression, as Snape didn’t seem inclined to give him a tour of the place, but he liked what he’d been able to glimpse of the rich wood trim, book-lined shelves and comfortable-looking furniture as he’d passed through the front room.  
  
Snape led him to a kitchen, off to one side of which was a solarium filled with greenery. A small fountain splashed water down a round stone in the middle of the glassed-in room, and in the corner on a stand was a cello—the source of the music. There was no player; no hand drew the bow across the strings, or worked the fret to create the notes that the large wooden instrument was producing.  
  
“A cello. Not a music lover, I take it?” Harry couldn’t help it; once he’d known the client’s identity he’d assumed he’d be dealing with something truly nasty or dangerous, not a musical instrument playing rather lovely music.   
  
“Yes, Mr. Potter, a cello. A cursed cello that plays its infernal racket at all hours of the day and night.” Snape’s face was filled with contempt for the object. “It is not generally this melodious. As you shall see.”  
  
Snape moved toward the cello, his malicious intent clear, and the cello changed its tune to one of erratic, angry noise, the bow moved violently across the strings and Snape’s progress slowed until he seemed about to fall to his knees. Harry watched the struggle in the man’s profile as he tried to move forward until he was finally thrown back, past Harry and onto the stone floor near the doorway.  
  
Feeling generous and maybe slightly amused, Harry reached down a hand to help Snape up, which was pointedly ignored; he sprang to his feet unaided and with surprising agility.  
  
“Does it still appear innocuous to you, Mr. Potter?” The sneer was almost comforting in that Snape seemed to be undamaged, and the cello had resumed its lilting, hopeful, tentative tune.  
  
Harry made an effort to keep his smile behind his teeth. “Maybe I should give it a try? Come at it from a different angle, so to speak.”  
  
Snape’s only response was a raised eyebrow. Taking that as consent, he turned back toward the instrument, but not before seeing a smirk forming on Snape’s thin lips as he crossed his arms in front of him.   
  
The music then took on a teasing note, beckoning him, almost challenging him. Harry started forward, making an effort to keep his mind free of any ill will.   
  
_“Finite Incantatem.”  
  
“Silencio.”_  
  
He wandlessly and, for the most part, silently cast dozens of conventional spells, including one to levitate it, and several rather more unconventional ones, including a few ancient Egyptian counter-curses and one spell intended to turn it into a tomato—just to see if it would work—all with no success. _Stubborn bugger, eh?_ The instrument had an impressive self-preservation charm on it.  
  
He conjured a pair of earmuffs, wondering what effect blocking the sound might have. Harry could feel Snape’s agitation even before he heard him say scornfully, “Do you honestly believe that I would have engaged your services had I not made these very same attempts first?”   
  
He thought soothing things, as much for dealing with Snape as the cello, and noticed the tune had changed again, soothing him in return. In a gentle voice he replied, “I wouldn’t have expected anything less from you, Snape. But in order to assess the situation, I need to see the reactions or non-reactions for myself.”  
  
“Be that as it may, blocking the sound does not affect the magic,” Snape said impatiently.  
  
“The vibrations, right....” Harry said, holding his chin and tapping a finger against his lips thoughtfully. He noticed something akin to surprise cross Snape’s face, and it was very satisfying, but irritating at the same time. “I actually do know a thing or two, you know. The cello produces its music in the form of vibrations that the ear interprets as sound. The vibrations apparently carry the magic, which means that whether or not I can hear the music, the magic is still there in the vibration.” Harry wandlessly vanished the earmuffs with a flourish. Yes, he was showing off a bit, and he didn’t care to wonder why.  
  
Stone-faced, and seemingly unimpressed, Snape watched the display without commenting, and then added, “The cello, or the music itself, is also magically enhanced. It can be heard in any room of the house, though it is loudest in here.”  
  
Harry nodded and made a mental note of the information. Snape had been unsuccessful at approaching the instrument, but his intentions had also been pretty obvious. Maybe he could approach it since his objective, at this point, was only non-threatening curiosity.   
  
The music beckoned him again, changing from its almost taunting tune to one that seemed to be searching, and he took a step toward the cello. The sound filled him and flowed warmly over him. Then it moved into something that was rich and beautiful, with a touch of sorrow and Harry instinctively reached out for it. If he listened hard enough he could almost hear a voice in the music. What was it saying? He strained further, reaching for the words. It was telling a story. Yes, that’s it. It was telling _his_ story.  
  
How he’d reluctantly sought out Snape as Dumbledore had requested in the letter he’d found in his bequeathment. How they’d formed what was, at first, an uneasy alliance, and had worked together to successfully put an end to Voldemort. How Harry had been Snape’s loudest advocate in the aftermath, how he’d hired the best legal defense Galleons could buy and had testified on Snape’s behalf, presenting the evidence that Dumbledore had left with him, while Snape had sat looking dignified and indifferent, despite the fact that he was shackled to a chair in front of the full Wizengamot.   
  
Oh, and it sang of the hurt he’d experienced when Snape had disappeared shortly after his acquittal. A hurt that he didn’t understand at the time—what had he been expecting? That they’d suddenly become best mates? How he’d been at loose ends without the threat of Voldemort and then the trial to give his focus to. How he’d given it a go again with Ginny, who’d broken it off with him after only four months, stating, not unkindly, that she was not what Harry wanted anymore and that he should go find out what that was exactly before breaking any more hearts. How that had been another thing he didn’t understand until he’d met Liam. How he had become a bit of a slut after that—for nearly a year he’d slept with anyone who’d come within a few meters of him and had seemed even remotely interested.   
  
How he’d regretted any hurt he may have caused during that time, but hadn’t regretted the experience since he now had a better understanding of himself. That his sexuality was a fluid, unlabelled thing, though he found himself more often attracted to men than women—which had finally led him to an understanding of his feelings after Snape had gone from his life. The music swept over and through him, drudging up the carefully buried pain and disappointment at losing the man before he’d understood what it was that he’d wanted from him.  
  
Then he heard the voice more clearly, it sounded like Snape’s velvety growl, and it said, “Idiot boy.” And there was so much affection in it that it blazed through his system and went straight to his heart. He mentally reached deeper for the voice, wanting it to caress him again, missing its warmth, needing it desperately. He felt a strong grip on his right bicep; he was suddenly turned, and the voice was gone.   
  
“No!” he cried out in anguish, and then he was being shaken. The voice came back, but it wasn’t caressing, at first, it was frantic, and then authoritative.  
  
“Mr. Potter? Mr. Potter, get a hold of yourself, this instant!” He had to obey that voice, so he focused and opened his eyes. There was Snape, squeezing his arms...so, so close, and he felt a raw, aching need to wrap himself around the man as desire and something else, something more fundamental, coiled hotly within him.   
  
He knew that no matter how right it felt, somehow it wasn’t, and Harry worked to close off the feelings while trying to get his body and mind under control.   
  
He must not have been quick enough about it. Some of what he’d been feeling must have shown on his face, because Snape released his arms as if he’d been burned, then took a few steps backward—away from Harry. The look on his face was vaguely horrified, and strangely, embarrassed. The former, coupled with Snape’s reaction, answered a question he hadn’t dared to consider; clearly Snape would not be open to any advances, but the latter didn’t make any sense because Harry had obviously been the one making a fool of himself.  
  
He scrubbed his hands over his face, pushing his fingers underneath his glasses to rub his eyes in an effort to clear the remaining cobwebs from his muddled brain, and maybe to buy himself some time. Merlin, he’d unintentionally bared his soul, had inadvertently advertised his deepest, most hidden emotions plainly on his face and in his eyes, to a man who’d been _horrified_ to see it. Harry felt like a fool; once again, the hurt he’d buried so handily all those years ago was making him ache for something he couldn’t have.  
  
There was nothing for it though. Round one to the cello, but he wouldn’t give up just because he was personally humiliated. He still had a professional reputation to uphold. Later. Right now he needed tea.  
  
When he opened his eyes, he found Snape had schooled his features into an unreadable mask, which made Harry feel more on solid ground. “Wow, sorry, that was.... Er, could I trouble you for a cuppa, Snape?”  
  
“Tea. Yes.” Snape seemed to grab hold of the idea like he’d been waiting for suggestions. He turned on his heel with his usual swirl of black robes and strode out of the room, leaving Harry to scramble behind him. The cello was again playing that lilting, hopeful, tentative tune, which seemed odd considering what just happened, but it did keep Harry from feeling too dejected about it.  
  
~~*~~  
  
The tea warmed him from the inside out; for some reason, he was freezing. Harry wrapped his fingers around the delicate china in an effort to absorb more of its heat. He didn’t know how long he’d been lost in his own thoughts, but Snape appeared to be the same. The silence in the room, however, was becoming oppressive, and even though Harry hated it when people nattered to fill uncomfortable gaps in conversation, and suspected that Snape did too, he still felt the need to break the silence in some way.  
  
He placed the now empty teacup on its saucer and dug into the interior pocket of his robe, pulling out a note-pad and a self-inking quill. Snape had refilled his cup without comment while Harry scratched out a few pages of notes regarding what he knew so far, and listed the spells he’d attempted to use that had failed.  
  
Finally he broke the silence, asking quietly, “Is it all right if I ask you a few questions, about the cello?”  
  
“Proceed. I shall tell you what I know, though it is not a great deal.”  
  
“How did the cello come into your possession?”  
  
“It was here, in the house, when I purchased it.” Harry had suspected as much; he’d sensed a strong connection to the cottage itself when he’d been casting spells at it.  
  
“And the previous owners, do you know anything of them?”  
  
“The property was abandoned.” Snape looked away for some reason, and appeared almost sheepish as he continued, “I had a need to acquire the property quickly, and little desire to interact unduly with the agent.”  
  
“How long ago was that?” The question wasn’t entirely pertinent to the situation; even though it was more for his own curiosity, he felt certain he could make it relevant somehow if questioned about it.  
  
“Five years ago.” There was the slightest challenge in his face now. Harry felt a twinge that he didn’t care to analyze, but the reason came unbidden anyway. Five years ago would put him here almost immediately after he’d disappeared. Why was it still so bloody painful? They’d been nothing to each other, apart from the ease with which they’d worked together at the end, they’d shared nothing more personal than the destruction of Voldemort.   
  
_No mean feat, that_ , a little voice inside of him supplied helpfully.   
  
At the end, they’d stood back to back. After taking out Nagini, the last remaining Horcrux, Snape had fought off the masked Death Eaters, while Harry had concentrated his efforts on Voldemort himself. Carrying his wand in his left hand, and Godric Gryffindor’s sword in his right, he’d never forget the sickening sound it’d made when it’d connected; he’d magically sent it Voldemort’s way, with perhaps a little more force than was necessary. The sound had been that of cold steel ripping through sinew and bone, decapitating the now mortal man.   
  
Stranger than that sound was the silence that had reigned afterward, when, as one, the Death Eaters—both former and current—had fallen to their knees, clutching their left arms. Harry had supported Snape’s back and watched in fascination over his shoulder as the mark on the man’s left arm had slowly disappeared without leaving any trace of its existence. Voldemort was well and truly gone. It’d been a year to the day after Dumbledore had fallen; a year to the day after Harry had unwittingly carried the Headmaster’s careful plans to fruition by loudly and vehemently proclaiming Severus Snape a traitor and a murderer.   
  
A year to the day later, and Harry had trusted the man implicitly with his life.  
  
It had been love that had given him the courage to face Voldemort, to make the decision to sacrifice his very life if need be. Love for his friends, for his cobbled together family, for life itself even, but it had been his trust in Severus Snape that had delivered him to the battle.  
  
Maybe it had been a little personal, after all.  
  
Shaking himself out of his memories, Harry ventured another not entirely pertinent line of questioning, “So you’ve been dealing with this thing for five years, then? What made you contact us?”  
  
Snape considered for a moment, then answered, “It was not as insufferable in the beginning. It played only occasionally.” Snape seemed to become more tense, before continuing, “It has escalated, in volume and in frequency, and lately it has been...I have been subjected to....” The unlikely loss of words was almost startling from this man. “That is not important. What is important is that I want it removed.”  
  
He stood abruptly, pushing his chair back with a loud scrape on the stone floor, and walked his teacup to the sink, keeping his back to Harry. Having recent firsthand experience with what that instrument could do to a man, Harry couldn’t help but wonder if it’d made Snape relive things too, and if so, he wondered at the nightmares that could probably be found in Snape’s mind for it to use as fodder.  
  
When Snape returned to his seat, he seemed in control once more, so Harry pushed his note-pad to him and said, “This is a list of the spells I tried earlier; are there any that you tried that aren’t there?”  
  
Snape looked over the list, both eyebrows rising this time when he had to turn the page over twice to see the entire list. He looked up, one eyebrow arched, and something like amusement flitted through his eyes. “A tomato?”  
  
Harry grinned and shrugged. “I figured it couldn’t hurt.”  
  
“Indeed.” Snape looked down at the list again. “It appears you have tried everything I have, though I am unfamiliar with these four.” A long tapered finger pointed to the Egyptian curses. “And I must admit that it never occurred to me to attempt to transfigure a cello into a tomato.”  
  
Harry had never been more thankful that he often did things for his own amusement, like the tomato bit. Even though the man was not smiling, Snape seemed to be amused by it, which sent a little thrill through Harry, to have accomplished such a thing, and in the background the music became sort of light and plucky.  
  
Feeling reluctant to leave but knowing there was nothing else he could do here today, he smiled at Snape, and said, “Well, that should be enough for now. I can take this back to the researchers and see what we come up with.”  
  
That seemed to break the good mood, and the cello began a rather chilling song, cementing Harry’s growing suspicions about the thing. “That is all you are going to do? Hand it over to research? I asked for a specialist, someone who could remove this object from my home. Are you not capable of it?”  
  
Swallowing the defensive retort he felt clawing up his throat, Harry responded instead, “Something on this scale takes time and research to do properly. In fact, I usually don’t even come into something like this until the end, after all the research is done and we have a strategy worked out for breaking or removal. I think, as a favor to you, Hermione sent me here for the initial diagnostic.” Harry found that he wanted to reassure him, which in and of itself was a foreign concept. But the man seemed to be at the end of his rope. “Trust me, Snape, she’s brilliant at research, and we need to find out about the home’s previous owners before we can proceed with anything else. We need to know something about the person who enchanted the instrument in order to break the curse, and if that fails, we’ll have to develop a plan for removal, which obviously presents a number of challenges.”  
  
He didn’t know if it had been his reasonable tone, or the words he’d used, but Snape seemed, if not appeased, then at least resigned to the truth. “Very well.”  
  
Snape led him back through the house to the front door, and the cello played a mournful tune that changed slowly into a soft, soothing sound that Harry wanted to listen to forever. He wished he’d finished his second cup of tea too, because he suddenly felt sluggish. It’d been such a long day, hadn’t it? Snape slowed his steps a bit and Harry was grateful. If only he could just sit down and rest he’d be okay. He walked into something, and realized that Snape had stopped; they were at the door.   
  
Why was he at the door? He was so tired; the music was so, so sweet and if he went out the door, he wouldn’t be with Snape anymore. Snape, whose back was currently supporting him. Leaning on that wonderful form, he moved around to the front to see the man’s face.  
  
His eyes were closed, but opened slowly when Harry finally faced him; Harry wanted to fall into the black depths and live there for eternity. They leaned on each other for support, so tired, so, so tired.... “Mr. Potter,” Snape said in that voice.   
  
Harry wanted to taste that voice, but not right now, he was too tired.  
  
“You used to call me Harry,” he murmured, wrapping his arms around the taller man’s waist for support, laying his head on the shoulder conveniently in front of him. He was feeling less sure on his feet, but wonderfully gratified when long arms were wrapped around his shoulders and held him steady. Why was he so tired? “You called me Harry then.”  
  
“When?” Snape sighed into Harry’s hair.   
  
Harry couldn’t remember the question, when what? Then he remembered and he had to tell him, Snape had to know before he fell asleep. “Before. You called me...Harry...before you left....me. Why...did you....” So tired. He gave in to the insistent sleep, sighing into the black robes supporting him.  
  
The first time Snape had called him by his first name, Harry had almost missed it. Granted, he’d been falling at the time. Or more accurately, he’d been _plummeting_ —off of the loft area upon which their aggressive duel had been taking place. Snape had caught Harry with a spell that had knocked the wind out of him, and his wand out of his hand, and then had sent him tumbling over the edge into the open air, several stories above the floor of the old warehouse they were using for Harry’s training. It had also been the moment that Harry had discovered his wandless magic abilities, when he’d effectively cushioned his fall. But it was hearing the word—so foreign from those thin lips, and in that concerned tone, that he’d barely recognized it as his own name—that had stood out in his memory.   
  
Riding the coattails of Morpheus now, he saw moment after moment in which Snape had used his name. It seemed that Snape had crossed some sort of personal line that first time, for he had not referred to Harry as anything else afterward. But he’d used it sparingly; each instance significant for its infrequency. And watching from this distance of time and experience, Harry now saw what he’d missed then.   
  
Snape had actually _cared_.   
  
Taking that sweet thought with him, Harry abandoned Morpheus and fell deeper into the warm comfort of sleep.  
  
~~*~~  
  
Harry’d had occasion, over the last five or so years, to wonder what it would be like to wake up in the arms of Severus Snape. Certainly his fantasies were more specific to the _activities-before-falling-asleep_ part, than the _waking-in-the-arms-of_ part; however, of all the scenarios he’d indulged himself in over the years, not one of them came close to the real thing. For one, he’d never imagined that upon waking he’d find that they’d been standing—for what seemed like a very long time, if his tingling feet were any indication.  
  
For all that, the reality was not disappointing. The man’s neck smelled like spices and Harry wanted to take a bite. Maybe it was the comfortable weight of the arms around him, maybe it was the headiness of his proximity, or maybe it was the sultry song the cello was now playing—Harry wasn’t certain he’d ever know what possessed him to be so bold, but he could barely restrain himself to only a few light nips and soothing licks. The inky black curtain that hung down, surrounding his face, didn’t move as Harry nuzzled into the warmth, but he had a feeling that Snape was awake as well—the bobbing Adam’s apple, and the slightest hitch in breath gave him away. Harry took the lack of violent rejection as a good sign.   
  
He thought maybe he should be embarrassed at the way he’d behaved before they’d fallen asleep, but Snape had seemed receptive to it, and that had hope singing within him in time with the cello. Feeling bolder, he moved his attention up higher, nipping and licking his way to the delicate skin behind Snape’s ear. Restraint waved jauntily as it left the room, and Harry took the earlobe gently between his teeth, licking the bit of captured flesh, then released it with a softly sucking kiss. There was a great deal of satisfaction in the very quiet but brief grunt that he was rewarded with; however, he had no time to bask in the glow of it, as he suddenly found himself at the very length of Snape’s arms.  
  
The sudden change in situation, along with the fact that he’d been standing in one spot for Merlin knew how long, made him feel dizzy and unsteady, but the strong hands on his upper arms gripped him, keeping him on his feet. Once the world righted itself, he looked up at Snape. He was delightfully flushed, but there was a slightly pained expression on his face, and his eyes were closed. After a deep breath, the eyes opened, and Harry’s arms were released.  
  
“I don’t think the cello wants me to leave.” Harry was feeling the same way. Snape had let him nuzzle his neck, nibble his ear. He’d even seemed to enjoy it. He couldn’t believe he’d got away with it, and it was hard not to read too much into the fact that he hadn’t been hexed for his efforts. He couldn’t leave now if Snape asked him to, not while there was even a slim chance.  
  
“So it would seem.” Snape was looking at him warily. “Try the door again.”  
  
Harry reached back behind him for the doorknob, and as he did so, he heard the tune change again to that sweet, sweet song and he felt so, so tired....  
  
“Mr. Potter!” Harry’s head snapped up and he looked blearily at the source of the command. He’d almost fallen asleep again, which meant that he wasn’t leaving anytime soon. They would have to figure this out on their own.  
  
The cello seemed to agree, it started playing its lilting, hopeful, tentative tune once more.  
  
“Sorry.” Harry shifted his feet, his legs felt stiff and sore. “How long do you reckon we’ve been standing here?” The moment the question left his mouth, his stomach gave a loud and insistent growl of hunger.  
  
Snape drew his wand and cast a _Tempus_ spell. “Half-four. It appears that we’ve been here for nearly three hours.”  
  
Before Harry could form a reply, his stomach protested its neglected state again. On top of being hungry, he was one big raw emotion. Something had opened within him, something he now suspected had been lying there in wait for a while, and he felt a bit wobbly. “Could we maybe sit while we decide what to do next?”  
  
Without saying a word, Snape turned, robes billowing, and headed back toward the kitchen, then stopped abruptly and looked over his shoulder at Harry. “You may sit in here.” He gestured to his right, toward the front room. “I have no desire to sit in a stiff dining chair at the moment. I imagine something should be done about that appalling noise your stomach is making, as well. I shall see what I can put together—I am...unprepared for a guest.”  
  
Harry nodded gratefully. He sank into the sofa, which was every bit as comfortable as it looked, and sighed. He was both elated and anxious, and he wasn’t sure how long Snape—no, _Severus_ —would leave him alone with his thoughts, but he had a lot to sort out. Namely, did he want to do this? Did he really want to pursue this knowing that there was a better chance for rejection than success? The answer came easily—yes, he did. If he were honest with himself, he’d been plotting this, maybe not exactly this, but plotting anyway, to someday seek the man out and finally end this unfinished business between them.  
  
Only this didn’t feel so much like an ending, but a beginning.   
  
Severus had responded to him, had even in some very small ways encouraged him. While that could be attributed to a healthy male response, Harry knew there was more to it than that. He’d felt a wonderful thrum between them that couldn’t be blamed on the cello. And if his theory proved true, where they had failed to speak, the cello was speaking for them.  
  
Harry had formed a resolve by the time Severus returned carrying a tray laden with their supper. He placed it onto the low table between the sofa and the wingback chair, which Severus claimed for himself. The fire, burning in the large stone fireplace to Harry’s right, crackled merrily and cast a warm glow on the room. The cozy effect was not lost on Harry; it suited his needs nicely.  
  
The thick, rich soup, and crusty bread that Severus had prepared were delicious. The thrown-together grub for an unexpected guest was much better than anything Harry’d ever planned and cooked for himself, and he told Severus so.   
  
Comfortably full, he leaned back into the sofa and surreptitiously studied his host. The firelight was not kind to his face. The man was not pretty, and taken individually, his features might even be considered ugly, but all together they were interesting. And because the sum of the parts belonged to this particular man, there was, to Harry’s eye, a strange beauty there. One that had haunted his dreams and fantasies for far too long.   
  
He firmed his resolve. It would definitely be worth the risk.  
  
“I have a theory about the cello, Severus.” Thrilled that he’d managed to say the name aloud without a stumble, he continued before the other man could object. “I’d like to test it, if it’s all right with you.”   
  
Without waiting for a response, he started unfastening his robes.  
  
“What do you think you’re doing, Potter?” The line etched between Severus’ dark eyebrows deepened in consternation as he gripped the armrests on either side of him.  
  
“Relax, I have clothes on underneath. The robes will get in the way though.” He stood up and slid the robes down his arms. Harry thought he looked fairly decent in the plain jeans and tee shirt he’d chosen to wear under his robes, hoped anyway. The cello’s music changed slightly, slowing down, becoming sultry, which was encouraging.   
  
Severus eyed him warily, as Harry moved slowly around the coffee table to stand before him, he swallowed hard, his eyes questioning and his hands white-knuckled on the chair. _Now or never_ , Harry thought to himself.  
  
If Harry lived forever, he would never forget the utterly astounded look on Severus’ face as Harry slid his knees up onto the chair and straddled Severus’ legs, seating himself is his lap. The white-knuckled hands reached up to grab Harry’s hips, presumably to stop him from what he was about. But the long fingers clutching his hipbones had him thinking of something entirely different.  
  
“Potter,” Severus choked out between thin lips, “I fail to see what this will prove or disprove about the cello.”  
  
Harry reached up and placed a finger over Severus’ lips. “Shhh. Listen to the music.” Still a sultry sound, the music was becoming taut, expectant and was slowly building in intensity.  
  
Lifting his hands to frame Severus’ face, Harry looked into the fathomless eyes and felt like he’d found home. The features weren’t any more or any less beautiful at this close range, but Harry studied them intently, memorizing the planes of the face, in case this was his only chance. He noticed Severus’ breath become short, and Harry’s followed suit, the anticipation of what he was about to do sending a thrill coursing through him.   
  
Just barely remembering to listen for the cello, Harry heard what he’d expected. As he lowered his head, tipping it to the left to accommodate the nose, he heard the music reach and soar and when his lips closed onto Severus’ the searching tune seemed to find what it was looking for. Harry’s tongue sought entrance into the warmth of Severus’ mouth and it was granted, sliding along and then tangling with Severus’ in a heated dance, tasting of the red wine they’d had with their meal. The cello, then, ceased to matter; as far as Harry was concerned, it no longer existed; his entire world was just himself, this man beneath him, and the hungry kiss that they were sharing.   
  
The hands that had restrained his hips suddenly pulled him closer, and Harry broke his mouth away from its task with a gasp as arousal met arousal. He dipped his head again for another taste of the mouth, prepared to surrender himself fully, but was denied, suddenly wrenched away from his target by the strong grip on his arms.   
  
Severus looked at him wildly for a moment, chest heaving. “Stop this. You must stop. You don’t know what you are doing.”  
  
Harry took a deep breath, hoping to settle down a bit. He hadn’t meant to get so carried away. Too much, too soon. He tried to lighten things just a bit by deliberately misunderstanding. “I know exactly what I’m doing, Severus, I’ve had loads of practice.”  
  
“That is not humorous. You are under the influence of the music. It is a spell, an enchantment. And something that you shall deeply regret when you should come to your senses.” Harry’s heart leapt with joy—Severus had not denied wanting this. Now all he had to do was convince the man he wasn’t under a spell.  
  
“Severus, listen to the music. What do you hear right now?” The tune had reverted back its most common lilting one.  
  
“The infernal song it has been playing since the moment you stepped into this house.” It was fitting, Harry thought, that the cello had only started this song when they were together. He was starting to think of it as theirs, and he wondered if that wasn’t the exact crux of it.  
  
“I think the cello is in tune with you, and now with me. It’s not enchanting us, it’s encouraging us.”  
  
“Have you already forgotten the hours we have just spent in an enchanted sleep?”  
  
“If I’m right, then that happened because neither one of us wanted me to walk out that door.”  
  
Severus looked away without answering.   
  
“Do you feel compelled to do something unusual, something that you’ve never considered before?” Harry kept his tone soft and reasonable.  
  
Still gripping Harry’s arms, Severus answered quietly, “No, I do not.”  
  
“Then why are you assuming that I do?”  
  
Severus released his arms and gave Harry a gentle push. Taking that as a request, Harry got up off of the man’s lap. The tray with their dishes still sat on the coffee table. With a wave of his hand, Harry banished it to the kitchen and sat down on the vacated spot facing Severus, who was looking at him oddly.  
  
“What?”  
  
“You do realize that you are the only wizard alive who can do that with such ease, do you not?” Harry shrugged; he knew that his casual displays of power made some people uncomfortable, and he did make an effort not to use it openly when he was around such people, but he’d be damned if he would hold back in front of Severus. He fully intended to spend as much time as possible with the man. He’d just have to get used to it.   
  
“Can we get back to the issue at hand, please?” he asked. Severus’ arms and legs were crossed in front of him like a shield, his posture rigid, and Harry knew his task wouldn’t be an easy one. The cello’s music became taut and tension filled.  
  
“All right, Potter, if you are not enchanted, then how do you explain what happened to you in the solarium?” His look was challenging, but Harry wasn’t daunted.  
  
“The only thing that happened to me was the digging up of some memories. Some painful memories, nothing more.” Severus clearly did not believe him, and he knew that he was going to have to bare his soul to him. Harry sighed, there had been no reason to think this would be easy, but it would’ve been nice to jump right back into the snogging. He leaned forward resting his elbows on his knees, and ran a hand through his unruly hair.   
  
“Severus, when you...disappeared, the way that you did, I was completely devastated. I didn’t know why, didn’t understand why your leaving had affected me like that, at the time, but that didn’t make it any less painful. It ended up being a good thing, in a way, though. I mean, I had maybe a few too many...er, regrettable liaisons, I guess you could say. But it helped me really understand myself and eventually, why I had reacted the way I did when you left.” Severus’ posture relaxed somewhat, his arms now on the armrests.  
  
Harry forged on, feeling more confident, “This thing between us,” he gestured with his hand, “was there then. It’s never left me, actually. I swear to you, if I hadn’t found myself on your doorstep today, you would have seen me there soon enough. I’ve been restless and disinterested lately and I’ve been thinking about quitting, and thinking about finding you to see if you’d felt it too, to see if it was real, or my imagination. But you do feel it too, don’t you?” Harry hadn’t meant to ask, hadn’t meant to bring it up, but couldn’t stop himself from adding, “Why did you leave, Severus?”  
  
The music changed slightly, still tense, but whispering, giving the impression that it was telling secrets. He didn’t think he was going to get an answer out of the man at first, but then Severus said quietly, “You were a child, a very foolish child. I had no business thinking and feeling the way that I did.” Harry internally danced with glee; he was _this close_.  
  
“I wasn’t a child then, and I’m certainly not a child now.”  
  
“Nevertheless, I am not a person meant to inspire such things. You cannot possibly make me believe you would be here, offering yourself to _me_ of all people, if you were not being influenced by something outside of yourself.” The arms crossed in front of him again, and Harry’s glee turned into frustration.  
  
“You are so unbelievably stubborn.” He stood up and grabbed Severus’ arm. “Fine, you think it’s the cello, then we’ll go somewhere without a cello.”  
  
Severus tried to shrug him off. “Unhand me, Potter.”  
  
“No.” Harry felt reasonably certain that if Severus had truly wanted him to let go, he’d have made it happen. “You’d better hold on,” was the only warning he gave before Disapparating, tugging Severus along with him.  
  
They landed on a secluded rocky cliff on the firth and Harry had to steady Severus, who’d been sitting when they’d Disapparated. Far below, the sea crashed against rocks and a bitter wind swirled around them, raising gooseflesh on Harry’s bare arms. “Okay, Severus—no cello. But I still want to do this.”   
  
He raised his arms up around the taller man’s neck and pulled him down roughly into a demanding kiss. Plundering the mouth, and then giving in return a taste of the want and the need he still felt in every fiber of his being. Finally, Severus responded with a soft growl, taking what was being offered and giving with a passion that made Harry moan into his mouth.   
  
Severus broke off the kiss and leaned his forehead against Harry’s, whose glasses were pleasantly smudged and slightly askew, both of them short of breath. “Do you believe me now? Can you still blame it on the cello? I want this, Severus, I want you, and I have for a long time.”  
  
“You have always been a very foolish boy.” He sighed in what sounded like resignation. “I suppose I shall never be free of you now. Not that I ever have been.” Harry squeezed him around the middle and when he sighed, Harry just barely made out, “I do not deserve this.”  
  
“Let me be the judge of that.”  
  
A quiet, “Foolish,” was his only response.  
  
The wind picked up a bit, blowing Severus’ long black hair around them. Harry asked softly, “Are you ready to go back and face the music, so to speak?”  
  
“I am, despite the ridiculous pun.” Severus put a hand up. “But I shall carry us back. I have anti-Apparation wards and should anyone, apart from myself, try to Apparate into my home, they would find themselves in the sea below us. You should not have been able to Disapparate us in that manner.”  
  
“Yes, well, the laws of ‘normal’ generally don’t apply to me.” Harry couldn’t hold back the grin he felt tugging at his lips.  
  
Severus arched an eyebrow, and managed to look both irritated and amused. “Indeed, but I do not wish to test that theory today.”  
  
In a blink, they were back inside the warmth of the cottage, but this time in a room that Harry hadn’t seen before. Severus’ bedroom. The man may have chosen to live his secluded, solitary lifestyle, but he hadn’t skimped on the creature comforts. The furniture was beautifully crafted in a heavy dark wood, and the large four-poster bed was covered in soft luxurious fabrics of a deep wine color. The cello, which had been quiet, started playing a slow, seductive song.  
  
“Hmmm. Have something in mind, Severus?”  
  
A raised eyebrow was the only answer that Harry received, as Severus drew his wand from his sleeve, pointing it at the cold fireplace, bringing light and warmth into the darkened space. Harry watched as he moved around the room, putting his wand on the bedside table, he pushed the bedcovering down to reveal crisp white sheets, and then went into another room that Harry assumed was the loo and came back with a phial of something golden. His heart rate sped up in anticipation, recognizing the substance and Severus’ intentions.  
  
The man moved back around to stand in front of Harry, gently removing his glasses and placing them on the bedside table nearest them. He heard the cello, which sounded like it was sighing. It reminded Harry of something suddenly, and he had to ask, “Severus, what did the cello make you see?”  
  
He stood so close Harry was certain he could feel Severus’ heart beating in the thin air between them, and said in that low, sinful voice, “You, you foolish boy. Always you.”  
  
And finally, finally, finally, Severus bent his head and captured Harry’s lips, gently seeking, mapping out new terrain. This kiss, so different than the others, was sweet and lovely and teasing and not nearly enough. Harry sought to deepen it as he felt long cool fingers sneaking under his tee shirt to touch his bare skin, coaxing out a sound that was part sigh and part moan.   
  
He broke away as the tee shirt was pulled up over his head, and Harry shivered with want. He’d intended this to be slow to savor ever moment, but his need was too great and he’d waited too long to draw it out now. He waved a hand in front of Severus, making short work of the many tiny buttons that fastened his black robes.  
  
Pushing the robes off of Severus’ shoulders, Harry took in the sight before him. The older man was very fit, sinewy muscle covered the lean frame, and the pale skin was unbroken apart from dusky nipples and sparse black hair running down the center of his chest and belly into the top of the black boxers, which barely contained Severus’ arousal. Harry whispered, “Yes,” in appreciation, and lifted his hands to run them down the fine torso.   
  
As he bent his head to take one of the dusky nubs between his lips, Harry felt the deft fingers open his jeans and lower the zip. He wasn’t wearing any pants underneath, so when Severus pushed the denim down his legs, his erection stood proudly between them. He looked up into Severus’ eyes and the man breathed, almost reverently, “Beautiful.”  
  
Harry’s lips were taken hungrily, a delectable tongue seeking entry into his mouth. He moved closer to Severus and moaned as the friction and heat of the silk, and the hard length beneath it, rubbed against his own sensitive flesh. He suddenly found himself on his back, as Severus pushed him onto the bed behind him. He sat up and he watched with interest as Severus removed the last bit of cloth remaining between them.  
  
He whispered, “You can’t imagine how many times I’ve fantasized about this.”  
  
“I believe that I can,” Severus said in a low velvety growl that only served to increase Harry’s arousal.  
  
“Show me,” Harry challenged.   
  
Severus kissed him deeply, pushing him down onto his back, and then moved his lips slowly, hotly and thoroughly down his neck, dipping his tongue into the hollow just behind Harry’s collarbone. Kissing and nipping and sucking his way down Harry’s torso, slowly driving Harry mad with the sensation, until he found Harry’s aching cock. Severus ran his tongue up the length of him and then paid particular attention the sensitive head. Harry moaned in pleasure as he was taken into the moist heat of Severus’ mouth.  
  
It felt so good and perfect and hot and wonderful, but it wasn’t what he wanted, what he needed. He wanted more. “Oh, god, please...Severus, I need... oh, god, yes! No...Severus, please...want you...inside me. Please....”  
  
Severus seemed to understand the incoherent pleading. He stopped his ministrations and moved back up to kiss Harry’s fevered lips. “Are you certain?” Severus looked like he still couldn’t quite believe what was happening.  
  
Harry responded by holding out a hand. The phial of lubricant flew into it with a slap, and he handed to Severus. “Please.”  
  
He watched as Severus liberally coated his fingers with the fluid, and clumsily helped him with the stopper to close it. Severus leaned down and kissed him deeply, leaving him breathless. Then he felt the long, elegant fingers press into him one at time, moving in and out, stretching and scissoring, teasing his prostate with light caresses that sent delicious electrical shocks through him.   
  
“Now, Severus....” he pleaded with him. He held out his hand for the lubricant again and poured the remaining portion into his other hand, throwing the empty phial to the side. Severus removed his fingers, causing Harry to cry out at their loss. He sat up slightly in order to reach Severus’ arousal, and gently wrapped his hand around him, stroking the lubricant onto the heated flesh. He was rewarded when Severus sucked in a breath and pushed Harry’s hands away.  
  
Moving carefully between Harry’s legs, he gently lifted Harry’s knees, pushing his legs farther apart, then slowly pressed into Harry. “Yesssss,” Harry hissed, drawing out the word. It was perfect. He felt full and complete and Severus’ weight on top of him was wonderful. He lowered his legs to encircle Severus’ middle, pulling him deeper inside. Severus was panting, visibly working to keep control, and he dipped his head to kiss Harry, gently moving his hips.   
  
Perfect. Perfect. Perfect. Harry moved his hips in time with Severus, who changed his angle just slightly, then started thrusting in earnest. The rhythmic grazing against his prostate, his erection trapped between the friction of sweat-slicked bellies, the perfection of being filled by this man, all had him teetering on the brink— the heat, the emotion, the intensity building in a perfect crescendo. He opened his eyes to find the obsidian ones and cried out, “Severus!” as he tumbled over the edge.   
  
Severus thrust twice more, and then stilled, growling, “Harry!” He fell bonelessly on top of Harry, who soothed him, while trying to regain his own breath.   
  
“That was.... Wow. Brilliant. Perfect.”  
  
The cello played their tune, unnoticed, in the background.  
  
~~*~~  
  
Enjoying an excellent after-glow, Harry turned his head to one side and studied Severus’ not-pretty-but-interesting face. Although the man’s eyes were closed, Harry was fairly certain that he was still awake. Harry’s heart thump-thumped loudly, and he could hardly believe that it could beat at all—it felt so full that it might burst right out of him. The cello was softly playing their lilting tune, no longer tentative, and Harry sighed in contentment.  
  
“Do you think we’ll ever know where the cello came from?”  
  
There was enough hesitation that Harry thought maybe he’d been wrong, that Severus might actually be sleeping, but then without opening his eyes, he answered quietly, “I have no doubt that the industrious Miss Granger has not only discovered its origins, but has also managed to devise several viable plans for its removal.”  
  
Harry felt a bit of apprehension intrude on his good mood. “You’re not really going to get rid of it now, are you?”  
  
“Do not be absurd.” Severus opened his eyes. “It belongs here.”  
  
“Good. What are the chances you’re on the Floo Network?” The only response he got was a raised eyebrow.  
  
“Right. I guess I can wait. I really should check in with Hermione, though. I mean—I’ve been here for two days, which is a little above and beyond the average house call. And I need to thank her, because I’m fairly certain she knew exactly what she was doing when she sent me here.” Harry checked the man’s face for a reaction to that revelation, but Severus remained relaxed, and Harry breathed a small, silent sigh of relief. He’d never openly discussed his feelings about Snape with Hermione, but she’d always had a knack for knowing such things. She’d even tried, a few times, to get him to open up about it after the man had disappeared. The last thing he wanted now, though, was for Severus to think that there had been some sort of scheme or deception involved in getting them to this point.  
  
He decided to lead the conversation away from that topic. “I wonder, too, what the story is, if she really has figured it out.” He’d concocted his own silly scenario, and shared it with Severus. “I think it was a man, distraught over the death of his lover, a cellist. He enchanted the cello to play for him, so he wouldn’t feel so alone, preserving the memory of his lover for all time.” Harry chuckled internally, he felt giddy and the schmaltzy scenario fit his mood perfectly.  
  
Severus looked appalled, which only served to heighten Harry’s amusement. He tried valiantly to keep the smirk off of his lips. “Whatever their story, it won’t be as good as ours.”  
  
The oh-so-expressive eyebrow was directed his way again. “Ours?”  
  
“Our story. Vanquishing Dark Lords, comrades at arms—battling each other at first, and then victoriously battling the forces of evil together; losing one another, and finding each other after years apart—because of a cello.” The smirk found its way to his lips this time. “We’ll call it ‘Harry Potter and the Enchanted Cello.’ Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”  
  
“I think there is a bit of the ‘our’ missing from that title,” Severus responded dryly.  
  
Harry’s smirk was now in full bloom. “Well, I thought of calling it ‘Harry Potter and the Grump—’ ”  
  
“If you have even a modicum of self-preservation left, you will not finish that statement.” The threat was completely dismantled by the languid, satisfied look on Severus’ face.  
  
“God, I’ve missed you.” Harry raised the hand splayed across his chest and kissed the palm of it.  
  
Severus snorted faintly. “Had I known that you were prone to such—”  
  
“Romanticism?”  
  
“Melodrama. Sentimental foolishness. I may have to rethink this arrangement.”  
  
Harry turned onto his side to face Severus fully, feeling a bit jittery but daring to say the words, keeping his tone light and teasing. “Oh, go on, you love me anyway.”  
  
“I have never expressed such a thing.” Severus pulled him closer, belying his words, and Harry’s heart fluttered madly as the thin lips captured his in a possessive kiss.  
  
He sighed as he was tucked under Severus’ chin. He brushed his lips against the pale chest in front of him, the long arms winding protectively around him, and said, “You didn’t have to.”   
  
Sleep overcame them, this time earned naturally, as the cello played a peaceful, contented tune quietly in the background.  
  
  
  
FIN


End file.
